Did my father really die?

I wrote about the memories of the day I lost my father, who was only 54, and the six fleeting memories that still repeat in my heart.
I wrote about the six fleeting memories that still repeat in my heart.

It was a cold morning on December 8th, nearly 40 years ago—the same day John Lennon passed away.
As soon as I arrived at the office, I received a call from the general affairs department.

"Your father was in a traffic accident..."

I was speechless and stunned,
when my boss told me, "It's fine, just go home early."

I took the JR train and transferred to a flight I wasn't used to, heading toward the airport near my parents' home.
I have almost no memory of what happened during that time.

I feel like I was more worried about finding connections with short wait times than I was about my father.
However, for some reason, the sight of the spinning propeller on the last plane I took is burned into my mind.

I finally arrived at the airport in the evening and took a taxi to my parents' house.
The driver, knowing nothing of the situation, chatted away happily.

When we finally arrived in front of my parents' house,
perhaps sensing the unusual atmosphere,
the driver let out a gasp, and his expression stiffened in an instant.
Seeing that,
I realized, "Ah, this is a reality I can no longer rewrite."
The weight of my father's death clearly settled upon me.

And the memories from after I got out of the taxi remain vivid even now.
My mother's struggle to bear her grief, and my sister's fortitude, are still clear.

Since my father's death, there is a strange feeling I always have.
After graduating from high school, I rarely saw my father face-to-face.
Perhaps that is why.
Even now that he is gone, I can feel as if he is living his life as usual somewhere else.
My father is still alive, just as he was back then.

When I was a student, on the morning I was returning to university after visiting home,
I would go to say goodbye at my father's workplace,
and he would sneak over so my mother wouldn't see,
to give me some pocket money.

A worn-out, battered wallet.
Fingernails stained with red and black paint.
A crumpled 10,000-yen bill.
My father, who was usually a man of few words.
The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, crinkled in a mischievous smile.
"Keep it a secret from Mom."

Just those six pages...

Even though no new memories are being added,
the memories I have are changing little by little,
emerging more clearly than before.

On the morning of the day he died, my father appeared in a dream, which was rare.
We were driving along a high cliff by the sea.
My father was driving, and I was in the passenger seat.
After driving for a while and coming out of a tunnel,
we were suddenly thrown from the cliff.
The sensation of screaming "Whoa!" as we fell.
Then, everything went pitch black.
That was when I woke up.

I don't think this dream had any special meaning.
But if I am allowed, I would like to imagine it this way.

That my father at that time,
with his anxieties, loneliness,
and the dreams he wanted to fulfill in his heart,
was gripping the steering wheel right beside me.

"Dad..."
"You were riding with me, weren't you?"
"I wasn't alone."